


All Your Worries Spent

by geckoholic



Series: Absolution Calling [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Consensual Kink, Experimental Kink, F/M, Fear Play, Handcuffs, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:07:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3537356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha, Clint, and handcuffs: a not so comprehensive history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Your Worries Spent

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a quick little PWP brought on by the Red Room background info we gathered from Agent Carter. And then it went and grew feelings and a bit of plot. Why does that always happen to me? 
> 
> In case that's relevant for you (I know it would be for me) please consult the end notes to find out who ends up cuffed when things get down and dirty. Speaking of which: there's some mild pain kink going on, too, though that's not the main point. ALSO. Please note that the way this kink is handled here is somewhat unsafe, and acknowledged as such by the characters. It's done that way on purpose. Do not try this at home, educate yourself before you hurt yourself, and so on. 
> 
> This is based on a mix of ~old MCU canon and comics backstory, in total disregard of AOU spoilers. Just so you know what to expect. 
> 
> Beta-read by andibeth82 and tastewithouttalent, thanks to you both! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Under Control" by the Cary Brothers.

She’s ten, and she doesn’t remember anything else other than this: a room full of girls that are the same empty husks as her, waiting to be filled with skills and pathos and interchangeable personalities they won’t be allowed to hold on to. That’s what a Black Widow is – a vehicle, a puppet, a vessel for whatever it is that is most needed. And as such they are handled: not as children, but as tools. The metal of the handcuff cuts into her flesh, doesn’t let her find a sleeping position that’s halfway comfortable, and yet there’s solace to be found in its familiarity. But sleep won’t come, not tonight. She made her first kill today – a girl that used to sleep a few beds to her left, wept every night when she went to bed and every morning when she woke – and she tells herself it’s been mercy rather than cruelty.

He’s nineteen, and he remembers how things were different – not better, necessarily, but steadier. The hell he knew, instead of the one that keeps changing its face around him and makes it difficult to settle into anything. At some point, he knows, he’ll have to stop running, but it’ll be a while yet before that happens. The cot in the overnight holding cell is dirty and cold, and the metal of the cuffs fixing his hands behind his back cuts into his wrists. He can’t lie down, not like this, but that’s okay; there are other men in here, older, grittier, blinking neon signs for everything he doesn’t want to end up being. They look at him in a way that makes it clear sleep wouldn’t be a smart choice anyway. He’ll stay awake, ride out the night, find a place to rest when he’s back on the streets.

Both of them hope for better days that aren’t likely to come, squinting at the early morning sun as it dips their respective prisons in a deceptively peaceful orange and pink glow.

 

 

*****

 

 

The hole in the wall where he took them to hide for the night hasn't seen any visitors for maybe a decade, doesn't have power or running water and the outside toilet is halfway across the back yard. Clint thinks that's probably Hill's idea of retribution – inform her you're bringing in a KGB operative you were supposed to kill, get directed to the most decrepit safe house on the list for your trouble. On the upside, there's a fireplace and some logs that look ancient, but, from what he knows about that shit, should still do. Can't be too much of a requirement for things that only end up getting burnt, anyway, right? So at the very least they're not going to freeze to death overnight. 

Romanoff sits on a chair by the door, still in her flimsy cocktail dress underneath the coat he managed to steal for her on their way out of the city. He contemplates asking her if she's okay, but assumes he won't get an honest answer if he tries. He digs around for a lighter in the hundred and one pockets of his gear, startles when she loudly clears her throat. 

“There's a box of matches by the side of the mantelpiece,” she says, pointing once he's turned to look at her. “Old, I guess, but you could try.” 

He squints in the dark until he sees the small box with faded Russian labeling, mumbles a thanks. She rises from her chair when the fire's going, the room filling with the smell of burning wood and comfortable warmth, and settles down in front the fireplace. The logs won't last for much longer than sunrise, but that should coincide neatly with their scheduled extraction. The doors are booby trapped with some of SHIELD's expensive tech nonsense. They're as settled as they're going to get. Might as well get some shuteye while they wait. 

Clint waves his hands in her general direction to get her to glance his way, then nods towards the twin bed in a corner on the other side of the room, made of rusted iron, the only piece of furniture save for the chair and a massive wooden table by the door. 

She follows his line of sight and sneers. “Want us to go to and get comfortable?” 

“No.” He rolls his eyes. “You take the bed, I have an airbed in my bag I can use.”

That makes her eyebrows fly up. “I managed to run into a gentleman, hm?”

“More like a decent human being,” he says, getting up to rummage around in his stuff for said airbed. She remains sitting cross-legged on the floor, expression still doubtful. “Most of the time, at least, or so I hope.” 

It takes until he's spread the mattress out on the ground, feeling around for the button that makes it fill up with air automatically, for her to seemingly believe that he does, indeed, not intend to make her share the bed with him, and she stands up as well. Clutching her purse, eyes never leaving his body, she walks over to the bed slowly, sits down on it, coughs when that makes a billow of dirt rise up. 

Clint steps back from his own sleeping arrangements when he finds the button; he's been hit in the head by these things when they inflate before, no need to give her a comedic interlude. “We should probably turn the mattress. It's still not gonna be five star, but might be a little less dusty.” 

Romanoff shrugs her shoulders. “Okay. Give me a hand?” 

He does, then hands her a blanket, also SHIELD-issue and one of the more straightforward contents of his survival gear, and steps back to drag over his airbed and position it between the bed and the door. She raises her eyebrows again, but doesn't comment. There's trust, and then there's stupidity, and given how narrow this corner of the room is, she'd basically have to step over him in order to get away. He's got no plans to sleep so soundly that he'd miss it if she changes her mind and tries to run. 

They both settle in for the night, him in the sleeping bag of his fancy airbed and her underneath the blanket on the dirty bed. He's halfway to dozing when he hears the clink of metal on metal and shoots up straight, hand going for his gun. 

He finds her wide-eyed, legs drawn up to her chest, one hand going up above her head. It takes his eyes a few seconds to readjust to the dim light, and for him to realize that the source of the noise were handcuffs she’s using to cuff herself to the bed frame. 

“Don't get any ideas,” she spits, avoiding his eyes. “I could still take you out in under a minute if you try anything.” 

Clint doesn't doubt that, but it's not really what's going through his head right now. He sits up, arms resting on his knees. “Why are you do–“ 

“None of your business,” Romanoff cuts him off, “and none of your concern. Go to sleep, I'll do the same.” 

She shuts her eyes and shifts on the mattress, still facing him, head resting on her uncuffed hand, and he can't help but think about some of the more disturbing things he's read in the files he was handed before he took this assignment. _They're recruited as children, young girls, kept in training facilities and taught how to fight._ He'd thought it was a slightly more militarized version of the orphanages where he spent some of his early teenage years, but he might just have to reconsider. 

 

***

 

They get extracted around noon, and it isn't until they're on a plane halfway across the ocean that Natasha asks the question that's been swirling in her head for the past forty-eight hours. “Why?”

He – Barton, she reminds herself – had been dozing, head fallen forward, eyes closed, an obvious display of trust that she considered both careless and disturbing, but now he blinks at her. “Why what?” 

She finds and holds his gaze, not having any doubt at all that he knows what she's talking about. “Why did you offer to take me in?” 

“On a whim, really.” Barton scrubs a hand down is face and yawns, still unbothered. “You had that look.” 

“What look?” she inquires. There's a calm serenity coming off him that's pushing buttons she never knew she had. His stare is imploring rather than calculating, but his intelligent blue eyes are never leaving hers, never backing down. He should be afraid of her. He's not. 

“Like you needed to run and didn't know where to,” he says, shrugging. “Thought I'd give you an option.” 

Natasha doesn't know what to make of that. She doesn't know what to make of _him_ , and in a line of work where her life may very well depend on her ability to figure her opponents out in a heartbeat and play their weaknesses to her advantage, dodging that understanding is a skill every bit as dangerous as her changeability. 

When she doesn't say anything else, he fills the silence. “You're hunted on your own, not just by us. The good ones always are, and no one can run forever. Especially if they don't have a destination.” 

She would disagree, about that last part in particular; heading for a certain place is a distraction and therefore a liability. It's easier to outrun a tail if they can't get ahead and stand in their prey's path. He may know a fair thing about running, she guesses, but not that much about being chased. 

 

***

 

During their third mission together – a drug ring in Portugal – everything goes to shit. 

They followed the trail to a small harbor not far from Lisbon. It should have been smooth sailing, but someone must have tipped the dealers off. They were prepared, a small army with automatic weapons where they had expected minimal staff and a few stray sailors, and that's when Clint's position up high turned from an advantage into a trap.

He comes to on a cargo ship; the one they were trying to stop from ever leaving shore, probably. His stomach churns with the heavy swell of the sea. His hands are cuffed together behind is back, much too tight, digging painfully into his wrists no matter how he positions himself. He can see glimpses of the night sky through a port hole, dim light from a full moon not doing a lot to illuminate the room and give him a decent sense of his surroundings. The mad thought that he's going to die out here, left to rot in the guts of a stinking old tin can, tries to get a hold of him. He shakes it off. Panic's not going to do him any good. 

Company arrives around sunrise. They don't seem too interested in talking, which makes sense, since his employer is fairly obvious from the emblem on his uniform. It's not like they'd been undercover; the whole thing should have been quick and simple. The backhand across the face is pretty much expected; sticking to the classics, Clint can appreciate that. 

He tastes blood, licks it off his lips, and grins at both of his – what, guards? Captors? Doesn't matter, although he assumes they're not terribly high up the food chain. The ones who give the orders rarely get their hand dirty, unless they’ve been personally offended. “Guys, I think I booked a suite. This looks nothing like the brochure.” 

Not unexpectedly, that gets him another punch. He licks his lips again. They're not peppering their pummeling with questions, and that's not a good sign. If they were interrogating him, angling for information, there'd be a reason to keep him alive. But if they're just down here for a workout or because hitting people is fun for some people, then there's no saying how long they'll keep him breathing, whether they're keeping him around because they figure he'll be worth something to someone or merely for entertainment. 

And, well. If it's entertainment they want, he can play along, mouth off some more, fight back against all odds and make it worth their while. He's learned how to do that before he learned how to drive and has had plenty of opportunity to hone that skill ever since. 

“Hey,” he says, staggering to his feet and suppressing a wince when the cuffs rub painfully over already torn flesh. “Is that all you got? My grandma, may she rest in peace, had a stronger right hook.”

 

***

 

He's been missing for five days, and Natasha's heart beats in her throat as she follows the tac team through the abandoned factory in Algier. The air is hot and humid and stinks faintly of bleach, their way lit only by flashlights. But the intel's been sound. He should be here. He _has_ to be here, because if he's not, they're out of leads. 

There's some commotion up ahead, followed by heavy boots kicking in a door and shouting. Sound carries down here, reverberates off the walls, and it takes her a moment until she can make out the shouts of _found him_ and _get paramedics down here stat_. 

She pushes her way past the men in heavy armor, none of them daring to tell her to stay back, into what appears to be an old restroom. In a corner, arms bound together behind his back, dressed in wet, bloodied dress slacks and nothing else, she spots him. He's breathing, chest rising and falling like it's an effort to do so, but doesn't seem responsive. 

Natasha stands and stares, relief at finding him alive and blind rage at whoever did this to him at war within her, and it makes her feel as if she's drunk, her head swimming. She tries to shake the feeling off, still not used to worrying, to having anger on someone else's behalf, to _caring_. With a frown, she kneels down next to him, cups his chin with her hand until he peers up at her with bleary eyes. 

“T'hre you are,” Clint slurs, attempting a smile that looks more like the grimace of a clown from a horror movie, dried blood flaking his face and his jaw swollen, making the whole expression slightly askew. 

He falls forward, then, into her arms, as he drifts back into unconsciousness. She shifts his slack body into a more comfortable position, horror filling her mind as she sees the handcuffs binding his arms, shiny cold metal in stark contrast to the angry red where he must have rubbed his flesh raw trying to get out of them. Chances are he'll have scars on his wrists for a while to come, matching the faint lines that have marred her arms since childhood. 

 

***

 

Some days it freaks him out, how integral a part of each other’s lives they’ve become, and how quickly. They’re a little over a year into their partnership, and already he can’t quite recall a _before_ , a time where she wasn’t around; it seems like a lifetime ago. 

When he walks into the gym at 1:30 AM, he knows he’ll find her there. They don’t have an official arrangement about that, but they’re both downright nocturnal – too much time spent on missions all over the world, constantly jet-lagged. Physical exertion helps, and they have an unspoken agreement that they’ll help each other achieve it, should they conveniently be awake at the same time. Which, by now, is more often than not. 

“You’re late,” Natasha says when he enters. She’s been here awhile; there’s color high in her cheeks and sweat beading at her hairline. 

He points vaguely towards his crotch. “Tried the easy way first. Didn’t cut it.” 

“I didn’t need to know that.” She rolls her eyes, nods at the mats in the middle of the room. 

Clint doesn’t bother with verbal confirmation, just strips out of the SHIELD-issued hoodie he’s wearing and lets it fall to the floor, leaving him in nothing but sweat pants. The way her eyes travel down his chest doesn’t escape him – not appreciative or suggestive, although there is that, too, between them sometimes, has been for a while now – nor the way it gets stuck on a particular set of scars. He rubs at his wrist with the fingers of the other hand; the lines are faint, barely there, but they’re more personal. She’s got them too. Clint never did ask her exactly what the story is, but between the first night she defected with him and the files he read about the Red Room, he’s got a pretty good idea. What counts is that they’re old wounds; she has shed the habit, he’s pretty sure. It’s been months since he caught fresh abrasions on her wrists. 

Natasha clears her throat and he looks up, finds her staring at him with raised eyebrows and barely masked concern. “Where did you just disappear to?” 

“Nowhere,” he replies, rolling his shoulders with a teasing smirk that he knows she’ll see right through anyway. “Let’s go.” 

 

***

 

Natasha watches him sleep, ever since New York. Lies awake in the middle of the night while he tosses and turns, listens when his breathing becomes ragged and haunted, as if he's still running from something that's taken residence inside his own head. During the day he bites his lip and insists he’s fine. But he can't play pretend while he's asleep. 

There are a million and one reasons why she shouldn't feel guilty. They may be partners, but they're not each other's keepers. They can't be, if they want to be able to do their jobs right. She was continents away, each of them following orders, and it wasn't the first time they were flying solo. No one could have known.

And yet there's this voice inside of her head that tells her _if she'd been there_... Partners isn't all they are, hasn't been for a long time now. The part of her that prizes his safety over her own, that can't fathom a time wen won't be around, that can't fathom _losing_ him, it tries to convince her that he's been hers to protect. Ridiculous. He'd never let her, even though – or maybe because – she's fairly sure he feels the same way about her. 

She's drawn out of her thoughts when he makes a small noise of distress, the lines of his face scrunching up as if he's in pain, and she tries to gauge whether she should let it subside on its own or try to wake him. He's going to feel caught, embarrassed maybe, but... 

“Hey,” she says, loud and firm, resisting the urge to touch him, shake him awake, and switches on the light. “Hey, it's just a dream, come on, _wake up_.” 

Sucking in a breath, he shoots up onto his elbows, blinking, disoriented. He turns, eyes finding hers, and visibly deflates. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, uh. Fuck.” 

“Don't apologize,” Natasha says. She reaches out to touch his arm, not quite certain if it's meant for his reassurance or her own. He flinches. 

There's still fading bruises on his torso, not all of them hers, but some. But she knows that’s not why he's shying away. She tries again, slower, letting him anticipate the touch, and he closes his eyes, sighs when her fingertips brush his skin. He sets his jaw, inhales, looks right at her, like he wants to say more, so much more, and can't find the words. 

She doesn't need to hear any of it. Doesn't want to, either. All he'd do is try and play this down, tell her not to worry, tell her once again that he's _fine_. She runs her hand down his arm, lightly, and inches closer to press her lips to the spot where she first touched him. 

Nothing she could say or do could make this better, or easier. What she can do is offer a distraction. 

His forehead falls against hers as she works her hand between their bodies, underneath the comforter and down his boxers. She coaxes him to hardness with practiced movements, longstanding familiarity with his body making it easy for her to manipulate it even when he's not all there. They breathe in tandem, share the same air, his hand coming up to wrap around the back of her neck and drag her in for a kiss. He comes quietly, pushing up into her hands a few times, mouth still sealed to hers as he rides out a shallow, mechanic orgasm, only drawing back once he's done. 

“Thanks,” he says as he turns away to rummage in the nightstand and produce a wad of tissues to clean up, but it's toneless and flat. More than anything he sounds tired, the kind that's got nothing to do with waking in the middle of the night and everything with the nightmares that caused it. The muscles in his back are still taut, and she clicks the light off knowing there's no real way to ban the monsters that chase themselves inside his mind. 

 

***

 

He doesn't tell her until the assignment is signed off on and not to be stopped, until he can't back down anymore. Fury grits his teeth over what is basically loaning him out to the armed forces, by credit of his military record and numerous newscasts that show shaky videos of him stabbing aliens in New York, but he doesn't say no. It's probably a horrible idea. Clint hated the military the first time around, and he hated the desert even more. Compared to walking past the memorial plates for the agents whose deaths he caused, though, it sounds like a vacation. He doesn't tell Natasha any of that, doesn't use nearly as many words to explain himself. He assumes she knows all of that anyway – it's really not too hard to put together. 

Natasha regards him with narrowed eyes. “You're running away.” 

“I'm not – “ he starts, but realizes as soon as the words are past his lips that he has no idea how to follow up on them. Running away is exactly what this is, and there has never been much of a point in bullshitting her. He exhales. “Yeah. I am.” 

“Do you think it will help?” she asks, her eyes shining with something his brain processes as pity, despite knowing that's likely not her intention. 

Clint shrugs his shoulders, averts his eyes. “Yes. Maybe. More than staying here. Some distance might be good. Seeing something that isn't SHIELD, working with people I didn't try to shoot.” 

She's silent for a long moment; he's not looking her way anymore, but he can feel her gaze on him like a lead weight. Then she sighs. “I'm pretty sure you know I won't tell you not to go.” 

 

***

 

A little while after she’s smiled challengingly into flashing cameras in a room full of politicians and journalists, she finds Clint in her hallway as she steps out of the shower. He's a little thinner than when she last saw him and a lot more tan, grinning and wearing a pair of obnoxious purple sunglasses. To anyone else, he might seem downright cheerful. But Natasha isn't anyone else. She can read the slight stiffness in the way he holds himself, the faint lines of worry on his face. 

“You could've called,” she says, deadpan. 

He waves a hand, leans against the door frame. “Nah. I like knowing I can still surprise you. It's the little things, right?” 

Not much in the mood for meaningless banter, she readjusts the towel she's slung around her body and closes with him in few quick strides. He doesn't waver, doesn't so much as move a muscle when she takes the sunglasses off and discards them. Up close, he smells like day-old sweat and generic hotel soap, and she can see grains of sand still clinging to his hair and the worn leather jacket he's wearing. Straight here from the airport, then. 

“It's a little foolish to stay in this apartment with everything that's happened, don't you think?” he asks after a beat, to break the silence she presumes, and she hates that he feels the need to do that. They're still out of step, because he's still not back to being comfortable in his own skin. Months apart, and it doesn't seem like he's managed to find whatever he was looking for by doing penance in a goddamned desert. But even that, somehow, makes sense. It's Clint. He wouldn't let himself off the hook so easily. 

“What's the point in hiding?” she says, and shrugs. “Between New York and D. C., I'm no one's secret anymore.” 

They both know she could have disappeared if that was what she wanted. She hopes he also knows that she wouldn't have run away before making sure he'd be able to find her. 

From the way his posture relaxes, he just might. He drags in a breath, gaze finding hers. “So I guess going back to my place and rescuing my vinyl collection wouldn't be considered suicide, either, then.” 

She rolls her eyes at him. Countless times, she'd nagged him to get rid of those. He doesn't even have a player anymore, but he insists on keeping the records. Sentimentality, a callback to something in his past that she has no idea about. She never bothered asking. “You'd have done that anyway.” 

Instead of volleying back another quip, he grins again, this time a little more genuine, a little more like she knows and remembers. It's a relief beyond anything she could put into words. Everything she was sure of in this world has shifted and changed, everything but him, and she's done standing around while they’re sizing each other up. 

She takes a step back and lets the towel drop to the ground. He watches it fall, breath catching in his throat. The seconds tick away between them until his eyes flicker up again to her face, his eyebrows raised, like the fact that she's standing in front of him naked isn't permission enough. Whatever confirmation he needed, he seems to find it written in her expression, because it's as if someone has released a string that held him in place. He backs her up against the wall, both hands on her hips, head pressed into the crook of her shoulder as he makes quick work of his belt buckle, steps out of jeans and underwear, loses shoes and socks. She reaches up to help him with his shirt and jacket, because she needs him naked, needs to feel his skin slide against hers, but it's too fast, causing the whole mess to tangle as she tries to strip it off over his head. He frantically tries to pull himself free, stills only when she puts one hand on his chest and runs the other up his arm, making him stretch them out over his head, at the same time turning him so now it's his back that's pressed flat to the wall. 

Holding his gaze, she keeps his arms in place, pinning them, and runs her free hand down his chest and lower, starting to slowly jack him off. His body goes slack on the spot, eyes falling shut, and she's certain it's not the touch to his cock that's causing that reaction. Experimentally, she presses down harder on his arms, watching rapt when his hips jerk upwards in response. She's got him trapped, all but immobilized and visibly enjoying the hell out of it, and that shouldn't give her such a rush. She never wanted him to submit to her – being on equal footing is too integral a part of what they are – but this doesn't feel like she's taking anything from him. It feels like he's _offering_ something, and she wants it, wants it so much it has her afraid of herself. 

That's why she breaks away, letting go and pulling her hand back from where she was touching him. He opens his eyes, blinks at her with what she could swear is _disappointment_. 

“Get rid of that,” she says, nodding at the tangle of fabric around his arms, then towards the living room. “Come on.” 

She leads the way, doesn't spare a look to see if he follows. They fuck on the couch, his mouth on her throat, her legs wrapped around his waist as he drives into her and she guides the depth of his thrusts with a hand on the small of his back. 

The uneasy sensation, like there's an abyss hidden within her and she gazed into it for too long, doesn't go away until way later, when he's showered as well and she's curled into his side, telling him all about and Fury and the Winter Soldier and how they decided to take down Rogers's ghosts from the past. 

 

***

 

Clint decides he'll give it a week. Between the two of them, it's usually Natasha who sits _him_ down, reminds him that he's an adult and expected to fucking act like it, and he counts on her to do it this time, too. Left to his own devices, he'd swallow down a lot more; there’s a row of boxes set up in his mind for that exact purpose. Sealed and stored away safely, they allow him to stay functional. Somewhere in said boxes, he suspects, a good therapist would also find the reason why, when a full week has passed and she still hasn't broached the subject, he takes matters into his own hands and pockets two pairs of handcuffs from a stash at work to take them home. 

Because this is different. It's not something that happened to either of them and that they'll need to work through. No, this is happening with them, between them, and he's not blind. He sees the way she glances at him sidelong, avoiding his eyes when he glances back, like she's ashamed, like she did something wrong. As if she thinks she did something _to_ him, and he couldn't stand to let her keep thinking that. Plus, well. He wants to know if it was a fluke, spur of the moment and not repeatable, or if there's more to it than that. And it would be weird not to talk to her about it – sure, he's not big on talking about his feelings, relies too heavily on having her notice something's up and coax them out of him, but they don't keep secrets. Not about their work or their pasts, not about anything that concerns them in the here and now. It's circulating in his mind, and therefore, if she's not going to bring it up, he will. 

They get called in for a mission the same night he steals the handcuffs, both their phones buzzing at 3:23 AM, and sent halfway across the globe. A milk run, for them, and they're in and out within thirty-six hours. 

The cuffs sit in his weapons bag for an additional two days. 

When he finally works up the nerve to bring it up, they're at his place. He's stretched out on the couch, head in her lap while she's watching a foreign movie he doesn't particularly care for, scratching his scalp absentmindedly, and he's so relaxed he might just start purring. The end credits roll – he's nothing if not considerate – and he turns to look up at her, taps her leg to get her attention. 

“Nat,” he says, conversationally, waits until she looks down to meet his eyes. He swallows. He's not the type to practice speeches, to try out words and phrases before he needs them, but right now he wishes he was. Winging this probably won't help his case. “I have a pair of handcuffs in my bag, had them for almost a week, and I want you to, uh. Use them. On me. While we're... you know.”

Natasha cocks her head, in that way she has when he's not making sense to her. Shit, he's going about this all wrong. 

He sits up, clears his throat. “That thing, when I first came back, with the jacket and the wall... I really liked that. And I think you did too.” She's still not saying anything, simply keeps staring, and it's making him nervous. Well. More nervous than he already is. “Can you say something? Anything?” 

“I'm not going to do that to you,” she says, her voice even, detached, almost making her sound cold. But there's a waver to it, a nervous edge that betrays her emotions. He still feels like he's poking around in the dark, but he was _there_ , and he saw her, and he damn well knows how she looks when she's enjoying herself. 

“I'm suggesting it,” he points out, hopes maybe shouldering the responsibility will make this easier on her. “I'm asking you to do it.” 

Natasha stares at him for another long moment. If she refuses again, he won't keep arguing. The only way this will work is if they're both into it and a hundred percent on board. He has no interest in convincing her otherwise. She stands, body angled away from him, her hand wrapping around the backrest of the couch and squeezing.

“You're right. I did enjoy it. You, seeing you like that. And it terrifies me.” 

He suppresses the urge to scoot over, to get close enough to touch her. “Why?” 

“You know about the training camp. The beds, the cuffs. How can I want to do the same thing to you?” Her face scrunches up, and it makes anger surge in him, blind and overwhelming, directed at everyone who had a hand in doing that to her. She composes herself quickly, of course, face schooled into – not indifference, she's affected and she's letting him see it, but the obvious pain gets wiped off her features. Still, her voice is small and hesitant and so unlike her it makes him want to scream when she asks, “What's wrong with me?” 

“Nothing's wrong with you,” he says, but it sounds lame. Parroting negations of her concerns at her isn't going to be enough, here. He does get up as well, now, gently puts a hand on her shoulder to make her turn around. “I spent a lot of time in youth detention and overnight holding cells, when I was a teenager. Stealing's never really been one of my talents, but it's not like I had much of a choice, you know? My point is, I also have a long and storied history with being bound, and the memories aren’t particularly happy ones. If you'd asked me last month, I would never have considered the idea that being tied down might be something I'd get off on. Plenty of that on the job, right?” He smiles at her, relieved to find her smiling back. “But our little... incident, that was different. It was you. Us. I trust you. All I'm suggesting is that we try it out again. See if it works. If either of us, at any point, decides it's not going to work out, then that's that. End of story. Hell, if you tell me right now it's not something you want to poke at, I'll never mention it again.” 

He takes a breath to stop himself from rambling further, watches her face to gauge her reaction. Because it's Natasha, there isn't much of one, aside from a slight pensive frown. “Do you have them here? The cuffs?” 

“Yeah.” He knows it's not a yes yet, but that knowledge doesn't stop the blood from rushing to his crotch, and he just barely manages to keep from reaching down to readjust himself. It'd be kind of embarrassing how much he wants this, yearns for it, if he'd allow himself to stop and examine the feeling. “Yeah, I do. Wait a sec.” 

The bag is behind the couch, always kept within reach in case they have to leave in a hurry, and it takes him a moment's digging to find the cuffs. Once he's fished them out, he lays them on the table. She picks one pair up and lets them dangle from her fingers. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Clint repeats. He blinks, wipes his hands on his jeans; he hadn't noticed them getting sweaty, or maybe that's a recent development. Because she's not putting the cuffs down. She's picking the other pair up too and staring at him expectantly. “You mean, right now?” 

“I... yeah?” Her shrug is aiming for nonchalant, but a little too forced to hit that mark. “Unless you need to work through it first, we can revisit this if you're not ready and – “

“No. Yes. I mean, I'm ready.” That's kind of an understatement; he's hard already, blood rushing in his ears. He passed _ready_ a couple of minutes ago. Now he's something else. _Dying for it_ comes to mind, although he'd never admit to being this needy out loud. He nods, for emphasis. 

Natasha nods back, bending to retrieve the remote and turn off the TV before she marches past him towards the bedroom. She's still holding the cuffs with one finger, making them swing back and forth as she walks. He follows her wordlessly, until they're standing in front of the bed. They’ve had sex any number of times, here, at her place, many other places, but this all-new, uncharted territory for both of them, and he's not sure how to proceed. Then again, he reminds himself, he's the one who brought this up. Waiting for her to take the initiative now would be unfair, so he slides his T-shirt over his head and strips out of his jeans and underwear. Standing before her naked, he jerks his head toward the bed. 

“How do you want me?” It's supposed to sound filthy, challenging, but he's too nervous to make that work. 

Her gaze flits from him to the bed. She clears her throat, and he sees her transform in front of him: grabbing the bull by the horns, taking charge. Natasha's no stranger to being in command. It comes naturally to her, he figured that out a long time ago, even though he'd never expected she'd be commanding _him_ like that. “On your back, all the way up to the headboard. Sitting, not lying down, legs spread.” 

That's... precise. But he decides he likes that; less room for second-guessing. He gets in position, the steel of the headboard cool where it touches his bare back. It's why he suggested this at his place: he's got steel ribs for a headboard; her bed is made of solid wood. 

She walks up to the nightstand, places the cuffs there, then crawls up the bed and settles between his knees. “Use the pillow to prop yourself up and lean back. Make yourself comfortable. Try to relax.” Sending a questioning glance towards the nightstand, he does as he's told. She swats at his thigh. “Don't be so impatient, we'll get to them. But not while you're so tense. _Relax._ ”

He closes his eyes, makes a show of settling further into the pillow, half-tempted to cross his arms in front of his chest for good measure. That thought gets halted, though, eyes flying back open when she bends down to lick at the head of his cock. She takes it in, just the tip, and sucks gently before coming up smirking, eyebrows raised. 

“I want you touch yourself,” she instructs, sitting back on her heels. She stays in that position until he does, wrapping a hand around himself and stroking slowly, before she crawls further up his body and just _waits_ , watches him as he jerks himself up, her eyes going back and forth between his face and his crotch. She likes watching him – that, at least, isn't new. 

He's panting, hand flying up and down in a fast, relentless rhythm, when she guides his free arm towards the headboard and secures it with one of the cuffs, clicking its other end around one of the steel ribs, her fingertip running over his wrist. “We'll need something to soften these, so you don't hurt yourself, if you struggle.” 

His breath catches in his throat. “No,” he rasps out, his hand stilling, caught off-guard by how hoarse his voice sounds to his own ears. “Don't. I'm... that's part of it. Not the pain, necessarily, but it wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't feel real.” 

For a moment, right then, he's worried she's going to call this whole thing off. Her face darkens with concern, and she whispers his name with a note of... compassion, he thinks. Understanding. But she just leans in to kiss him, quick and awkward due to both their positions, and pulls his hand off his cock as she climbs over his body. She nudges at his elbow until he gets the hint and holds it out over the headboard as well so she can snap the second cuff into place. 

Their eyes meet and he's breathing hard with something that's not arousal anymore but also isn't quite panic, the unlikely combination alien and a little bit terrifying. He suddenly understands why she didn't cuff him right away – it would have been so much worse without the distraction, is easier with endorphins already swirling through his body and softening his reaction. As it is, he's already turned on enough that it overshadows the fear that nips at him. Natasha waits until he's worked through it, gives her a brief nod to signal he's okay, he's fine, he's not going to freak out on her. Only then does she reach back towards the nightstand, pulling out a drawer and producing their bottle of lube. He hisses when she pours the cold liquid over his cock, somehow still hard despite the conflicting signals firing through his brain, and she spreads it generously, touching him everywhere; the juncture of leg and hip, balls, perineum. She massages the skin just below the base of his cock, alternates it with stroking him every so often. It's a good deal gentler than what they usually do between the sheets, but he welcomes the change of pace – it helps him stay grounded that she's being careful, in every sense of the word. 

Any number of things are running through his head in the background, trying to push through the haze, and it's unexpectedly hard to concentrate on her touch, on her hands on him – not something he usually has a problem with. She picks up on it, pauses what she's doing to brush a gentle hand down his side. “You okay? Should I stop?” 

And no matter how straining this is, how difficult to stay in the present, stay with her, he's afraid that if they stop, whatever kind of exorcism they started tonight wouldn't ever lift, would stay with him forever. And that's what this is, even though he hadn't been aware of it before: an exorcism. For both of them, probably. They're reclaiming something that was torn from them. Each in their own way but – and this is the important part – they're doing it together. 

He shakes his head. “Don't stop. Whatever you do, please don't stop.” 

“Okay,” she says. Her hand doesn't return to his cock, though; instead she leans forward, her body hovering over his as she kisses him, deep and filthy. She breaks away, lips spit-slick and swollen, and that's a sight he will never get enough of. “Scoot lower, so your head's resting on the mattress. I'll be right back.” 

The loss of contact when she stands is like opening a levee, the hurricane of thoughts and memories inside his mind swelling, growing louder. Scooting down is easier said than done with no leverage from his arms, but he manages, although it adds a few fresh scrapes to his wrists. Once he's settled on his back, she shimmies out of her jeans, panties coming down as well, and he gets what she's up to, swallows hard, licks his lips. She grins when she sees that, reaches down to slide a finger through her folds and then touches it to his mouth, wet as it is. 

His brain very nearly short-circuits. He _aches_ with the need to touch her, strains against the cuffs, making them clink and rattle against the steel rib as they dig into his skin. It's worse yet when she gets on the bed and kneels above his face, her cunt so close he can smell it, can almost taste it, but staying just out of his reach. She's touching herself again, arches up as she parts herself to let him look his fill while she rubs over her clit, moaning above him. 

She lowers herself slowly, another guttural moan escaping her when he lifts his head and licks at her, more to get her taste on his tongue than to reach deep. Her self-control slips, teasing him apparently taking a rapid swan dive on her list of priorities, and then she's right there, the scent and taste of her cunt all there is as he licks into her again, guided by her fingers still rubbing at her clit. He slips between them to press his tongue against her, sucking with just a hint of teeth like he knows she likes it. She's moving above him, swiveling her hips, and he imagines her other hand touching her breast, maybe squeezing a nipple. His head is finally almost blank as she struggles to breathe, his hips are pumping at nothing all the while. He's still hard, so hard it's riding the edge towards pain, simultaneously desperate for release and also not ever wanting this to end. 

Years of being together in one way or another, and he recognizes the signs of her approaching orgasm, having witnessed it what feels like a thousand times before – the hitch to her breathing, the way her motions turn sharp and quick, as if she's zeroing in, centered around chasing the pleasure that's about to roll through her. Her eyes flutter closed. The pace of her fingers where she rubs at herself speeds up, then comes to a stop, her whole body going still. He doesn't let up until she slides off him, panting, her hand briefly caressing his face as she goes, wiping her wetness off his lips to bring her fingers to her own mouth and suck. 

He thrusts at empty air again, and she grins, smug with the barest hint of ferocity. “Let's get you taken care of, shall we?” 

The warm weight of her body presses against his side as she wraps a hand around his cock again, thumb playing with the mess of precome that has collected at the head, and she leans in to kiss him again, the kind of kiss he loves, breathless and desperate. His hands are working in the cuffs constantly now, muscles in his arms bunching unconsciously; he never realized how much he loves touching her, cataloging every tiny movement of her body, every reaction, and the fact that he can't do that now drives him straight out of his mind. The metal of the cuffs bites into the sensitive skin of his wrist, raw and tender by now, and the pain only exhilarates him. He shifts his hands so can grip the steel ribs of the headboard, not to lessen the pressure as much as to supply him with some kind of valve for the pressure that's building within him. It's more than an orgasm when it hits, it's actual _release_ , washing out past pain and fear as it goes. None of that's gone for good, he knows, but for the moment his mind falls quiet. 

Natasha breaks the kiss, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth one last time before she reaches over his body to retrieve the keys for the cuffs. He falls into her arms once he's free, boneless and beyond caring, vaguely aware that she's massaging his wrists to get the circulation going properly again. 

 

***

 

She wakes at sunup, like most days. He's awake already, his head propped up on one arm, watching her, and so the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes is his face. The worry lines around them seem just a little bit smoother, and his lips curve up in a smile as she blinks him into focus. She can't remember the last time she's seen him so relaxed. 

“Watching other people while they sleep is creepy,” she grumbles, mock-chiding, belying her own words by shifting closer, close enough that she can feel the heat radiate off his body and breathe him in. 

His expression sobers. “You okay?” he asks, and she thinks on it for a moment. Weighs the part of her that doubts her reasons for giving in last night, assumes them to be more selfish than altruistic, against how content she feels and how calm he looks. Their lives aren't ordinary. They never have been. Maybe their coping mechanisms don't have to be either, as long as they work. 

“Yeah.” Her hand gently wraps around the bandaged wrist of his free hand – she did that when he was drifting last night, or already asleep – and she brushes her thumb over the fabric. “I think I am.”

He nods, lowers his hand so he can slide his fingers between hers and twines them together. Through the large windows of his bedroom, blinds forever half-drawn, the light of the rising sun filters in and bathes the room in a peaceful orange and pink glow.

**Author's Note:**

> Clint's the one who ends up cuffed to the bed. Because reasons. Also, have you ~seen those arms? Ahem.


End file.
